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But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Head
Turns
Away
Noise
Decide
Anymore
Awareness
Turn

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I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself to the ivy.
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Because our lies matched. It was a sign.
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I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.
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He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.
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God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.
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And everyone knows you can’t disprove a rumor.
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When you write a book for publication, you're writing it for other people to read.
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It's nothing. A school project. My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project.
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And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.
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I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.
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Yes, it feels great to plan your life when you believe everything can turn out fine. But what about when you're shown, again and again, how little control you have over anything? No matter what I do to try to fix my future, it doesn't work.
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Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
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And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.
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That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.
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You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.
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I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.
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If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.
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And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.
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I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked the boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the story, the whole story, right there.
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If I had a chance with him, I missed it. No, I didn't miss it. I threw it away.
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